Sic Transit Gloria
by Spooky-Girl
Summary: Of all the evil in the world, it's the people you really love who can hurt you best. Even if they don't mean it... postShadow. Rated for future chapters and language.
1. Chapter 1

A/N : Post-shadow, because I can't stand loose ends, and I feel the need to tie them up, or sever them. Let me know what you think, should I continue?

Disclaimer : I don't own Supernatural! But I do own this...

Warning : SPOILERS! BAD WORDS! GRAPHIC SCENES AHEAD!

---

We drove for hours, leaving the city lights behind us, pushing eighty even on back roads, because we needed Chicago behind us. We needed to put miles between us and that city. We needed to put miles between us and our father, because to be together was to be dead.

The car reeked of blood, sweat and desperation.

An empty tank forced us to stop somewhere in Ohio, where too bright lights chased the shadows into the corners of the lot.

I turned off the ignition, but didn't get out of the car right away.

I felt Sam's eyes on me, felt the question poised unspoken on the edge of his tongue, and I spoke only to beat him.

"Don't."

"Don't?" he asked, like he really thought I had no idea what he was thinking.

I shook my head, and got out of the car, every inch of my body protesting.

He followed me, the creak of his door echoing in the empty night, watching me from over the roof of the car.

I moved slowly as I walked to the pump, trying my best to ignore him.

As persistent as ever, he stared me down, his eyes throwing a million words at my back.

I bent slightly to insert the nozzle into the gas tank and gave the handle a squeeze, the liquid flowing freely.

"Dean," he said.

One word. Only one fucking word, but his tone pleaded with me.

"What?" I asked, turning around, my voice hissing back at him.

He blinked once, and fell silent again.

"Stay out here," I said when the tank clicked full. "We don't need two freaks attracting attention."

Only then did his eyes convey the realization that we were both still bleeding. That in all the hours on the road, we hadn't stopped to clean up, to check each other out or take care of the wounds spanning our bodies.

"Christ, Dean, are you okay?" he asked suddenly, taking a step forward.

I took one more back.

"I'm fine," I said, but I winced as I went for my wallet. "Stay in the car, Sam."

He flinched only slightly, but nodded.

I walk inside with my collar turned up and slip into the bathroom, hopefully before the attendant can see me.

Without a road under the tires, without mile markers passing by, without anything to occupy my mind, the realization hits me very suddenly.

Hard.

We almost died tonight.

Hell, I've almost died enough times to say I laugh in the face of it, but tonight we almost fucking_ died_.

All of us. The entire family came inches, seconds away from being... gone.

And little Sammy saved the day.

And then I almost laughed.

What a sorry fucking state of affairs.

I was covered in blood from gashes on my forehead, my cheek, my lips stained red from blood. God knew what else was bleeding on me. I hurt everywhere.

I did my best to clean away the blood with a wet mass of paper towels, and threw the entire sodden clump in the toilet, ignore the warnings, and flushed the evidence away.

I wrapped my jacket around my blood-soaked shirt, and ran my fingers under the tap, wetting my hair, pushing it forward to hide the wounds as best as I could. Satisfied that it was as close as I was going to get to passing for normal.

As I paid for the gas, I half expected the attendant to speak up, accuse me of something, ask about the blood, anything, but all he did was take my money, and hand me change. He didn't even look at me.

And I was kind of offended.

I was relieved as hell, but at the same time, I wanted to scream.

After all we went through, I wanted someone to know. I wanted someone to wonder. I wanted someone to fucking care.

Instead, I pocketed my chance and gave a longing glance at the freezers against the back row, the plastic bottles of soda and water lined up in colorful, appealing rows.

I was thirsty as hell. Which meant Sam probably was, too, but cash was dwindling, and as much as I wanted to keep driving, I knew we had to stop soon. Those cuts on Sam's face would need looking at, and I was tired.

Really... fucking... tired.

I swallowed a sigh and left, walking the miles back to the car and sinking gratefully into the front seat, closing my eyes for a few seconds.

"Dean?"

And there it goes again.

"What?" I asked, opening my eyes but not looking at my brother.

"Are you -"

"I'm _fine_, Sam," I stressed, reaching for the keys.

"You don't want me to drive or something?" he asked, and I could_ feel_ those eyes on me again.

"No."

The engine turning over sealed the deal.

No talking, only driving, that's how I liked it. Even if the tension was palpable. Even if I wanted to scream. My way or the highway.

A few miles down the road, a sign for a motel vacancy caught my eye. Before Sam could speak, I flicked on the turn signal.

I could practically hear him sigh in relief when I pulled into a spot. Had I been in a better mood, I would have laughed. Now all it did was make me angrier.

I stepped out of the car, my breath catching when a stab of pain lanced across my chest. It was enough to double me over, and Sam was at my side in seconds, grabbing at my elbow.

I shoved him away roughly. Too roughly.

"Dean," he said, hurt, questioning.

"Get off," I spat, unable to keep the anger from creeping into my voice.

Because someday you'll be gone, Sam. Because you won't be here to help and I'll have to take care of myself. I might as well get used to it now.

My vision was swimming and standing up straight only made it worse.

I took one uncertain step and stumbled.

And he was there, again, this damn kid I'd learned to depend on, and then to live without.

"I'm fine," I said, only half aware that he hadn't said a word.

"You're not fine," he countered, grabbing at my arm again.

"How would you know!" I exploded, shoving him.

He stumbled backward, colliding with the car, a flash of pain going across his bloody face, and I immediately regretted the action. Still, I couldn't make myself go to him.

"Dean, what the hell?" he demanded. "You pick now of all times to have a hissy fit?"

God, I wanted to smash his face in at that moment.

The gravel underneath my boots was unsteady, shifting or something. I staggered.

"What the fuck do you care, _Sam?_" I asked, lacing a bitter lack of emotion into the name.

It hit him hard. It hurt him.

Good.

He didn't want this anyway. He didn't want this life, didn't want Dad or me. He was in this to get the demon that killed his girlfriend, and nothing more. He didn't _care._

He pushed off the car, and clenched his fists.

"That's right, Dean," he said sarcastically. "'Cause I don't care at all."

And I wanted desperately to believe he did.

"You're the one who sent Dad away," he continued, accusing me with those brown eyes.

"What?" I asked. "_What!"_

"We had him back, Dean," he cried. "And you told him to leave! We could have fought those things together! We're strong, Dean! We're a family!"

"What do you know about family?" I asked him a little too calmly. "You're the one who left _us_. You're the one who wanted out. You got your wish Sam. But now you want out again. I'm sorry I ever dragged your sorry as back into it."

"You're lying," he said, pleadingly.

But I wasn't.

He had wanted out. And I was sorry. Not for the reasons he thought. Sorry that he couldn't have that life, because there he had been happy, safe. And now that was gone, and god, I was so _sorry._ I don't know if things would have turned out that way if I hadn't gone up there... maybe if I'd stayed away Jess would be alive. Maybe Sam would be happy.

All I knew was I was dragging him under.

I latched on to him like a dead weight and held on because _I_ wanted my family back together like the old days. Because this was the life _I_ had chosen, and _I _wanted him to be a part of it.

But he wanted me to let go.

And for the first time in my life, I wasn't going to be selfish.

He shook his head at me, tears shining in his eyes.

He opened his mouth and -

- and suddenly the world pitched on it's side, slid, and shattered into a million tiny pieces.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Because it was asked, and because you should know, the title comes from the phrase "sic transit gloria mundi..." which translates to 'thus passes the glory of the world", or not so literally, "glory fades". It's also a Brand New song which is pretty cool, but has nothing to do with the story.

And another warning, the language is probably going to get worse. To those of you who don't like it, I apologize, but in this instance, I really can't see the boys saying "well, darn it all". Please try to look past it.

Lots of reviews make me happy:D

---

I dream of fire some nights.

I dream of fire, a hallway engulfed in flames that climb the walls and cover the ceiling. In the fire, I see a face, too disfigured to make out details, but I don't need details to know who is burning away in front of me. I dream of orange heat licking my skin, dream flames that cannot hurt me, but I wake with the scent of scorched meat clinging to my nostrils. I wake up with a scream locked in my throat, always half convinced my own skin, covered in sweat, will be twisted and scarred, but it never is.

I dreamt of fire that night, the same old dream, only this time the flames swallowed Dad, swallowed Sam, and I stood remarkably alive while the flame tickled my skin, skin that melted and bubbled, twisted and blackened.

I woke up screaming, not the usual silent scream, one that made it out of my throat this time. My body pressed to the bed beneath me, unable to move, half convinced I was really on fire this time, I kept screaming until my throat was raw. And then, exhausted, I let myself go limp.

My body was on fire about as literally as it could be - my muscles were screaming at me, and wounds I couldn't identify were singing cheerfully along with them.

My brain only half realizing that Sam wasn't coming to my aide, I rolled over, body protesting, and somehow managed to get myself into a sitting position.

The room was empty.

My heart leapt into my throat, and promptly sank back down again.

Sam wasn't there.

His bag was sitting unceremoniously at the floor beside the bed, and beside it a torn shirt and bloody jacket. I recognized them as mine, and looked down to find myself shirtless. There were wounds dotting my stomach, but I couldn't see them in the dark room.

It didn't matter anyway.

Sam was gone.

Where was Sam?

The last thing I remembered was arguing with Sam, and even that was hazy.

I refused to believe he would have left me, not yet, not now, not in this situation... but it was the first thing that came to my mind. My biggest fear, and a very real possibility.

I pushed myself to my feet, swaying, and staggered to the door, pushing the heavy wood open. My car was still there, but that didn't mean anything. Sam wouldn't steal my car even if he was leaving. He knew better than that.

I shut the door again, and rested against it for a moment, the simple act of moving wearing me out more than I cared to admit.

He didn't leave, he wouldn't leave...

I kept that as a mantra repeating over in my head as I stumbled into the bathroom, needing to occupy my mind, needing to take inventory of my injuries.

I flicked the switch on the wall and winced as bright light flooded the bathroom.

I directed my attention toward the mirror, and upon seeing myself, promptly dropped to my knees and spilled the contents of my stomach, barely making the toilet. I remained there for a few minutes, hunched over with my arms resting on the cool porcelain seat, not caring how dirty it might be, only relishing how good it felt against my heated skin.

My stomach looked like ground meat, shredded in more places than I could count. How I had managed to miss that kind of wound before was a mystery. I guess it was shock, but that seemed impossible. I was torn apart, how could I not know it?

And if I was hurt that badly, Sam might be, too.

And Sam was gone.

I wanted to cry, frustrated and too weak to get up and do something about anything.

I was alone.

Not that I hadn't managed on my own before. Not that I couldn't again.

I'd stitched my own wounds before, I could do it again. Clean up and move out, figure out what to do from there.

I felt childish, suddenly, sitting there telling myself I didn't need Sam's help, and angry as I realized that he must have been the one to drag me here, to strip my shirt off, to see my wounds, to know how bad I was hurt, and to just... leave?

That wasn't Sam.

Or, was it? How well did I know my brother? Obviously not as well as I thought.

Another wave of nausea hit me hard, and I dry heaved, my chest aching. I spat into the toilet bowl, trying to rid myself of the bitter taste in my mouth.

Satisfied that I wasn't going to vomit again, I let go of the commode and pushed myself against the wall, painfully dragging my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, trying to make myself smaller, to disappear altogether. Trying to pretend this all hadn't happened.

---

I woke up some time later to the sound of the door slamming shut. My instincts told me to get to my feet, ready to fight, try to find some sort of weapon. I don't like being caught unaware, yet here I was, sleeping on the bathroom floor, not even thinking to bring a knife in with me, and despite everything in me, I couldn't make myself move.

And then I heard it.

"Dean?"

The voice sounded more than frantic.

"Sammy..." the word was little more than a whisper, and a hoarse one at that.

I wondered briefly how much time had passed, where the hell Sam had been, but it took too much effort to even be relieved, and my head dropped back down to my chest.

There were the sounds of movement in the room, and then the door I hadn't remembered closing opened, and I heard a soft cry leave his mouth.

"Dean!"

Too loud, his voice echoed in the small bathroom.

I tried to answer, but my mouth wouldn't cooperate.

I could feel his hands, pulling my head up, then his fingers, cool on my skin, gently touching the side of my neck, and then he was prying my eyelids open, the light shining directly in them.

I winced.

"Dean," he said again, sounding immensely relieved.

I made some strange gurgling noise in reply, and he cursed loudly.

I heard him leave and wanted to scream for him to stay with me.

He returned some seconds or minutes later, I had no way of telling, and knelt back down, holding something in his hands.

"Dean?" I heard him ask. "I'm gonna have to stitch you up, okay?"

I think I nodded, but I found myself suddenly transfixed by the butterfly bandages on the side of his face, holding the torn skin together. Vaguely, I remember touching my hand to my own ravaged face.

He cursed again, digging through a paper bag.

"Dammit, Dean, I was only gone a few minutes," he said, obviously upset. "We didn't - there wasn't enough in the first aid kit..."

He sounded almost like he was going to cry, and I found myself wanting to comfort him somehow, reassure him, and tell him it was okay.

Only, it wasn't okay...

All I could manage was to lift an arm that felt strangely detached and touch the side of his face with stiff fingers.

"Jesus, Dean..." he muttered again, looking up with tears streaming down his face. "I can't do this if I'm crying."

My hand fell back into my lap, and I stared at it dumbly.

"I need to..." Sam said, trailing off into a rapid string of mumbling under his breath.

I let him position me as he needed, feeling numb.

"This is going to hurt," he said apologetically.

And strangely, it didn't. No pain registered as he pinched the edges of the wound together. I felt the needle go in, felt the tug of the thread, and _knew_ it should hurt, but it didn't.

The whole time I kept staring at the angry red lines on his face, slashes from the Daevas that were sure to scar and leave a permanent reminder of that night.

In that moment, bleeding on the bathroom floor with my brother standing over me, my brother who was covered in his own wounds, I knew that when this was over, if it ever ended, Sam's leaving would not only hurt me.

It would kill me.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N : Keep the great reviews coming and I'll keep the chapters coming. What a beautiful compromise. ;) I cannot stand how the show has no resolution. They end episodes with so much open and they never tie it up! Those writers better be planning one big explosion of pent up emotion. We're in dire need of some chick-flick moments, wouldn't you say?

---

When I was five, I learned to shoot.

I learned on a Derringer, a tiny, single shot pistol, because it was the only gun I could hold in my pudgy little hands. Even then, the recoil nearly knocked me off my feet. As a weapon, I find the gun pretty useless. It can do it's damage, sure, as any gun can do damage, because let's face it : it's a _gun._ It shoots _bullets._ But in a moment of crisis, I'd just as soon hurl the gun at an attacker instead of shooting one. That way they're distracted when I go for the big guns, something that can pack a punch and keep dishing it out.

We were living in a tiny shack in the woods outside of some town I can't remember the name of. Sammy was at the town daycare center, a significant distance away. The people who worked there were folks Dad trusted well enough, nice friendly high school girls watched over by a lady I remember smelled like moth balls.

We would drop him off a little after eight every morning, and spend the next four hours training. At first it was silly stuff, like push ups, sit ups, running laps around the house. Stuff I would have complained about, because not only did I want to be indoors watching TV, but to make it worse, this was _sissy_ stuff.

I told Dad one day in a stubborn little kid voice that anyone could do laps around the house. That I could do a hundred and never tire, so why were we even bothering? Couldn't we do something cooler?

Dad folded his arms and told me if I was so sure, then go right ahead. I was to run a hundred laps around the house. No ifs ands or buts about it. I wasn't to stop and rest, I wasn't to complain, I was to do as I was told.

And though the laps were tiny ones, I was a tiny boy, who was sadly mistaken about how much I could take on.

But I ran every one of those laps.

I ran until I was exhausted, until I literally fell at my father's feet and told him I was done.

I learned an important lesson that day : when given an order, don't stop to second guess it, just do it.

We went to get Sam like we usually did at noon, and I fell asleep in the car, legs so rubbery I couldn't even walk from the car. Dad carried me upstairs and put me to bed, and called off training for a week, until I wasn't so sore anymore.

The next day, we dropped Sam off, and Dad presented me with my very first gun.

I'd never been happier in my life.

When Sam got his first gun he was a lot older, and a lot less grateful.

I should have seen then that he wasn't made for this life.

He does one hell of a job, though, even if he hates it.

When he finished stitching me, he wrapped me in gauze, hiding the wounds that stretched from the waistband of my jeans to mid-chest, spanning my ribs and half of my back. I still felt kind of numb, and it scared me enough to decline the painkillers when he offered them.

Frowning, he shook out two for himself and swallowed them with a glass of water from the sink.

"Are you sure?" he asked one more time, shaking them in front of me.

I nodded, wincing as I pushed myself into a sitting position.

I'd been half tempted to check out the job he'd done on me, but if as bad as seeing yourself ripped open is, seeing the unprofessional stitching lacing those wounds together is worse. I can't even tell you how it is to look at sewing thread holding your body together. It's grotesque, even if you've got a strong stomach. Not to mention the heightened risk of infection from using anything less than medical sutures.

This was going to be fun.

I started to ask Sam to help me up, but almost unconsciously bit back the words, and levered myself up, one hand on the edge of the tub, one bracing myself against the wall.

"Dude, let me help you," he said, rushing to my side when he saw what I was trying to do.

"I've got it," I said, exhaling slowly as I straightened.

He said nothing, but stepped back, watching warily as I made my way into the main room, keeping one hand against the wall to steady myself.

"Dean?" he asked almost hesitantly.

"Mm?" I mumbled back, lowering myself onto the bed.

"Do you think Dad made it?"

I tensed as he sat down on the bed across from mine. I really didn't want to have this conversation facing him.

"Yeah," I replied, easing myself onto my back so I wouldn't have to look him in the eye.

"Where do you think he'll go?" Sam asked, as if he were thinking out loud.

"I don't know, Sam," I said, feeling frustrated. "I think that's kind of the point."

The silence after told me I'd gotten to him, and I felt a sick kind of satis faction from that.

Let him hurt.

That lasted all of ten seconds. It's not my nature to make Sam hurt, it's my job to protect him from being hurt.

"I'm sure Dad's fine," I said with a sigh. "He'll head someplace safe, or as safe as he can get. Far away from us, in some tiny town no one would ever think to look for him. He'll disappear for a while."

Sam swallowed hard enough for me to hear from the bed.

"Do you think we're gonna see him again?"

The pain and fear in Sam's voice floored me.

I wasn't used to seeing him caring this much about Dad. For one paranoid moment, I thought he was pretending, but I shook my head and chased that thought away. Sam wasn't a fake. Never was.

Still...

"Someday," I said truthfully.

Sam snorted.

"Someday," he repeated. "Screw that."

"Sam," I said, turning my head to finally look at him. "This is bigger than us."

He rolled his eyes and started to speak.

"No," I cut him off. "This is about more than you wanting revenge for Jess."

He blinked, a disbelieving look coming across his face. "You think that's all this is?"

"What else would it be?" I asked, staring at him.

He gaped at me, and stood up, fists clenched.

"How can you even ask me that!" he shouted.

And all I could thing was, shit, does this mean I have to get up to?

My chest was starting to hurt - bad - but I rolled over and struggled to stand, the only thing keeping me upright being my hand on the bedside table.

"How can I not?" I retorted breathlessly.

"I don't get you," he said, throwing his hands up in the air. "After all of this, you think, what, that I don't care?"

"I think you care," I said, picking my words carefully. "About a lot of things."

He motioned with his hands as if to say "annnnd?"

"And," I supplied. "I think you don't care a lot, too."

"What the fuck are you saying, Dean?" he spat.

I winced.

"I'm saying, when this is all over, when the demon's bitch ass is dead and gone, you're gonna do it all over again," I said slowly, pointedly.

"Do what?" he asked, sounding genuinely confused.

"Leave," I said, sneering. "Abandon your family for some stupid school."

"I didn't abandon you!" he shouted. "And it's not some stupid school, Dean, it's my life!"

"_This_ is your life!" I screamed, literally seeing red. "This is your fucking life, Sammy boy! This has been your life since the night mom died, and it'll be your life until you're dead, too!"

His hands fell limply to his sides.

"Don't you get it, Sam?" I said, breathing heavily and speaking softly now. "This _is_ your life... there's no escaping it. You can run to the edge of the earth, and it will follow you there. You hide from it and it'll break down doors to get to you. It'll kill everyone you love."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "Once this thing's gone -"

"There will be another," I said sadly. "And another and another and it will never _stop_, Sam. Never. Once you've seen the darkness, you can't hide from it. And once the darkness has seen you, it won't stop until it's destroyed you. And then it will kill you. Slow."

Sam shook his head, his lips trembling. Either he was going to cry, or he was going to punch my lights out. I couldn't be sure which.

"Sam," I said tiredly. "I would love nothing more than to let you go to school and have a normal life. But you'll never be normal. None of us will."

I was lying, but he didn't have to know that. He didn't need to know that I lived to hunt with him by my side, and that for the three of us together would be as close as I could ever come to normal, as close as I could come to happiness.

I'm a selfish bastard.

God, I wish I could let him go.

I let go of the night stand and took a step forward.

I saw Sam's eyes widen and saw his hand coming at me as he lunged in slow motion.

The last thing I thought was, how the hell was he managing to move that slowly?

And then I crashed face first into the floor.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: One thing I have to clear up before I go any further... apparently a few of you thought Sam hit Dean at the end of the last chapter. Oops. Not the case at all, but I see where you might get that. So, to recap, Sam was trying to make sure Dean didn't eat the floor, NOT hitting him! ... yet. ;) Read and review!

---

There are things I will never know about Sam. Like what the fuck goes through his mind half the time. But there are other things. More important than these psychic dreams of his. More important than him moving an immovable object with his mind. Things like his favorite color. It used to be green, but I don't know anymore, because green never came up in the conversation on how to kill a demon. Things like what he likes to do for fun, because there's no time for fun in this line of work. The closest I come to fun is hustling a few games of pool, getting wasted, and killing things that go bump in the night.

There are things Sam will never know about me. Because it's only fair that I get my secrets, too. Secrets like the fact that the "couple of days" Dad had been gone were more like a couple of weeks. And that at first I spent all my time drinking myself into oblivion, because I couldn't deal with the fact that Dad had left, too. That the hardest thing I'd ever had to do was to face him again.

And both of us together could never figure out what makes Dad tick.

We're all fucked up, and that's what makes us Winchesters.

Forget all the fancy chick-flick stuff. That's what really makes a family; being fucked beyond all reason, and loving each other anyway.

That's how Sam could shoot me point blank, say all the words I'd ever feared hearing, and how I could forgive him. How I could ignore the scars on my chest and how I could pretend he never meant them.

It's how Dad could look past the son who walked out on the family, and embrace him with tears in his eyes, breaking his own rules. Winchester men don't hug, and they don't cry.

We would do anything for each other, even die.

So how can it be so easy for Sam to turn his back and run, not once, but twice? How can it be okay in his eyes to just up and leave me again?

I guess when it comes down to it, we're all broken goods. Bound by fragile ties forged in fire.

Ties that Sam has severed, ties I have tried to repair.

Ties that will never be as strong as they were.

And some day, the rope that holds us all together will snap.

And I'm not sure what will become of any of us.

---

I wasn't out for long.

"You've got to stop doing this, Dean," I heard Sam say with a nervous chuckle. "I know you like avoiding these talks, but come on."

He slid his arms around me, beneath my armpits, pulling me against him and heaving me up with some difficulty. Floating in a murky half consciousness, I tried to get my legs under me and help him with my weight, but I could barely feel any of my limbs, let alone move them.

"This is ridiculous," he went on, talking to himself more than me. "We're never going to get anywhere if you keep pulling this."

A ghost of a smile passed my lips.

With a grunt, he let me drop as gently as he could manage on the bed, and lowered me slowly to the waiting pillows. I tried to look at him, but my head lolled to the side, and I couldn't make my eyes open no matter how hard I tried.

"Come on, Dean," he said from somewhere else now.

That boy needed to stop moving around, he was making me dizzy.

Seconds later, I felt probing hands on my stomach, and gentle as they were, pain shot through me.

I moaned, a guttural growl, and my hands went unconsciously for my stomach, finding Sam's and shoving them away, cradling my side protectively.

"Dean?" he asked hesitantly.

There's something to be said for pain. It keeps you grounded. As long as you're hurting, you're breathing, you're living... and sometimes it's the only thing that can keep you sane.

I cracked an eye, meeting his worried gaze, and let it shut again.

God, I wanted to sleep.

Instead, I managed to open both eyes, and keep them that way.

"Are you okay?" I asked, eyes fixed on his bandaged face.

He laughed and sniffled. "Yeah, Dean, I'm fine."

"Good," was all I said.

And then I turned my back on him, even though it hurt like hell to turn over like that.

"Dean?" he questioned hesitantly.

"I'm tired, Sam," I said.

"Yeah, of course," he said softly. "Do... do you want anything?"

_I want a lot of things, _I wanted to say.

"No," is what I did.

For a moment Sam was silent, and all I could hear was the sound of him going about the normal nightly rituals. Gathering his bedclothes was the sound of a zipper and a rustle of canvas. Light steps across the room, the gentle flick of a light switch, barely audible. Water running, toilet flushing. Footsteps again. A gentle shoosh of fabric as he pulled back the sheets.

The same sounds I'd fallen asleep to for years.

When Sam left, it was only Dad and me, moving from hotel to hotel, missing a part, but still functional. And the sounds were still the same. It was easy to close my eyes and pretend everything was the same as it was before. Then Dad left, and the silence came full force, invading my mind and making sleep impossible.

I would have to school myself to learn to live alone.

I'd never really been good at it, being alone.

Of course, I've never been too good at the other one, either.

Everyone I love ends up getting hurt - or worse.

So maybe it's for the best.

"Hey, Dean?"

I sighed, and contemplated pretending I was asleep.

"It's nothing against you," he offered up into the darkness.

"What?" I asked, staring at the wall hard.

"Leaving," he said. "It's not that I don't love you guys... it's just...that's my choice, Dean. That's the way I want to live my life. You're going to have to live with that."

I didn't have to live with anything I didn't want to, but I didn't mention that. No reason to get him worried over my innate need to have the last word in any conversation.

"Look," he said when I didn't reply. "You don't have to be alone. You could come with me. Settle down... there's a lot of really nice people, there, Dean, you might find someone you - "

"Enough," I whispered.

"Dean, you don't have to live this life either," Sam pleaded, and I heard him move under the covers.

"Don't you get it, Sam?" I said fiercely, forcing myself to stay still. "I will always be alone. There is no other way, not for me."

"But why not?" he demanded. "Dean, let yourself live!"

"If I live, others die," I said slowly, softly. "There's always gonna be evil, Sam. The world needs some bastard like me to look out for it."

"But..."

"No," I said. "This is _my_ choice."

Like it or not.

I heard him laugh disbelievingly. "Fine. Whatever, man."

Not for the first time, I cursed a God I didn't believe in for making a world where good people got hurt, and even daylight couldn't chase away the monsters.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: After a tragic internet outage that left me shaking through withdrawals, the next chapter is here! Don't celebrate too hard. ;P Let me know what you think, as always... I've got the next couple written up already, so you'll have to bribe me for them!

---

It wasn't always bad.

Of all the things I have packed into my head, all the spells and charms I have memorized, of all the creatures I have tucked away into the files of my memory, I think the most important thing I could ever lock away is that it wasn't always like this.

There were times we didn't have enough money to eat, times we had to live in the car because we couldn't swing a night in a motel, let alone an apartment. When we stuck around long enough to go to school, kids made fun of our ratty clothes, worn out shoes and our unfashionable military style haircuts. I got in more fights than I can count sticking up for Sam and me. We bled and we collected our battle scars, but we didn't complain.

On my eleventh birthday, Dad took us camping. To this day it's one of my happiest memories. Despite the heavy backpacks, I was walking on air that day. Even Sam was enjoying himself, grinning and laughing and running ahead of us, totally carefree.

We hiked for miles, pitched our tents in the woods and cooked s'mores over a blazing campfire, told ghost stories that were less story and more bragging. Dad sent us to bed when the fire burned out, but we stayed up way past 'lights out' talking and giggling, unable to sleep.

Of course, tired out as we were, when we fell asleep, it was a deep one.

We woke up to find Dad gone.

Tent and everything had been packed up, the campfire buried, and sitting on the ground was a map and a compass.

And like that we learned never to let our guard down, to expect anything from anyone. Because at any second, your good time can turn into another test of survival.

Three miles in, Sam sat down and refused to move, sniffling but not crying, angry and hurt that Dad had pulled this nasty trick.

"I'm tired and I'm hot," he had whined, arms folded on his chest.

Looking at his scrawny seven-year-old frame with the huge backpack strapped to his shoulders, I too became angry. Tests were one thing, they were old hat in our family, but Sam was only a kid, it wasn't fair.

A contrast between us, there, made me wonder how it could be that Sam was a kid at seven, and I could already fight my way out of a hairy situation at his age.

I picked Sam up and carried his bag, earning a backache and a scolding from Dad when we appeared at the parking lot at sundown.

"He needs to learn to pull his weight," Dad had told me. "One day you won't be there to save him."

"He can pull his weight," I'd retorted. "When he's not carrying double it. And you don't have to worry, _Dad_. I'm always gonna be there."

"Dean," he had replied in his no-nonsence tone. "You can't always be there for him, sooner or later Sam's going to be on his own. And someday he'll have to depend on himself."

"I'll _always_ be there," I had repeated fiercely, shoving Sam's heavy pack at his chest.

Taking this insubordinate behavior remarkably well, Dad had stared at me for a good minute before accepting my words as more than a moody pre-teen's stubbornness.

It was an oath.

An oath I wouldn't give up on until I was dead, or Sam was dead, or both.

I would die for him, and truthfully, I'm not sure I could say the same for him. Not that I'd ever want to be in that position.

I rolled on to my back, the darkness comfortingly pressing down on me. I wanted to sleep, I was dead tired, but I wasn't quite there yet.

It's like that every night. My mind races on and on, and I can't shut it off, no matter how hard I try. Thoughts, memories, worries, responsibilities, everything I put off during the day, all come back to haunt me in those vulnerable hours in between waking and sleeping.

So I'll let myself be overrun by every one of them, until my fingers clench the sheets and my eyes are squeezed shut, praying. For the thoughts to stop. For sleep to swallow me.

And I pray I do not dream.

---

I woke up to screams at three o' clock in the morning.

I didn't have to look at the clock to know the time, my internal clock has always been more reliable.

My hand was under my pillow in a flash, seeking out the knife I always kept hidden there. At the same time, I felt a stab of pain, and let out a cry.

If there'd been a need for a fight, I had a feeling I would've lost horribly. But lucky for me, the only demons present were the ones in Sammy's head.

His face was contorted in pain, and he was thrashing, trying to kick the bedclothes from his limbs as if they were serpents.

My heart broke.

Shaking, I withdrew my self from my own sheets and crossed the space between the beds on shaky legs.

"Sammy," I whispered, reaching out gently.

He smacked my hand away forcefully and abruptly turned onto his side, curling up into a little ball.

"Sammy!" I said a bit more forcefully.

"Mm?" his voice came back groggily.

"You're dreaming," I said, letting my hand fall back to my side.

He rolled over and blinked up at me blearily.

"Huh?"

"Go back to sleep," I said, swallowing around the lump that had suddenly formed in my throat.

"Dude, you can't wake me up and then tell me to go back to sleep," he groused. "What?"

"Bad dreams, Sam. Don't tell me you don't remember," I said, moving back to my own bed and shoving the heavy blankets to the side.

"Sorry," he said, and sounding it, too. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

God, do I always have to be a bastard?

"Don't worry about it," I said, laying back down gingerly.

For a moment it was silent, then the bed creaked as he rolled over.

"Dean?"

"Hm?" I answered, laying on hand gently on my stomach and wincing nevertheless.

"How come you never came to visit me?" he asked. "In college, I mean."

"What?"

Where the hell had that come from?

"You never came to visit," he repeated. "Why not?"

"You never came home for Christmas," I shot back, accusingly.

"I didn't know if you'd even be in the same place!" he cried defensively. "How was I to -?"

"I don't know, Sam," I said irritably. "Call?"

"I..." he started.

"I never came, Sam," I said slowly. "Because I didn't think you wanted me to. And I knew Dad didn't want me to. So it was easier just to keep doing what I was doing."

"Dad didn't want you to see me?" he asked, hurt.

"It's not like that, Sam," I sighed tiredly. "Dad was dealing with one son leaving. I don't know if he could handle another one gone."

"I guess," he said uncertainly.

"Sam, if you can honestly tell me you wanted me to be a part of that life..." I said. "I'll... I dunno. Apologize or something."

He didn't speak right away.

"Point taken," I said into the darkness.

"It's not that," he assured me. "Just..."

I waited.

"Okay. I didn't want you to be a part of that life," he admitted moments later. "I wanted my brother, but not if it meant all the stuff that went along with him. All the supernatural stuff."

"They're one in the same, little brother," I said hoarsely.

"I was trying to forget that part of life, Dean, you have to understand," he pleaded with me. "It's not that I didn't want you, it's that having you meant I couldn't pretend anymore. I couldn't be 'Normal Sam'."

"Why can't you just be yourself?" I muttered.

"I don't like myself," he admitted. "I don't think they would have, either."

"Well, Sammy boy, we liked you just the way you were," I said, laughing humorlessly. "So you might wanna take a look at your priorities."

"Past tense?" he asked.

"What?"

"Past tense?" he said again. "You said 'liked you just the way you _were_."

"Not how I meant it, and you know it," I said.

"Yeah, but..." Sam said, sounding very young. "Do you hate me?"

"What?" I laughed. "Sam."

"Do you?" he said, serious.

"No!" I shouted. "Don't be fucking ridiculous."

"Did you?" he persisted. "When I left?"

"I could never hate you, Sam." I closed my eyes, this talk draining me. "Hell, you shot me, and it didn't help. You could kill me, Sam, and I still wouldn't be able to hate you."

He didn't reply, but I heard the sound of a sob choked back.

"And Dad...Dad was always proud of you," I said softly. "He still is, to this day. I could see it in his eyes."

I hated to think he might be crying on that bed, but I couldn't help it.

"Sam, you have to understand that we're _all_ Dad has. He lost Mom, and he nearly lost us that night. In one moment our entire lives changed, they ended and started over in some twisted version, the same cast, minus one player, thrown in to this fucked up fantasy world, only the fantasies are reality. He was scared to death of losing us, and he raised us accordingly. He taught us to fight and trained us to kill so we didn't end up the ones dead," I said, trembling with the effort of telling him this.

I took a deep breath before continuing. "I know it's not the life you wanted, but it's the cards we were dealt. The best he could do was teach us to play 'em right. You can't hold that against him. Sam, when you left, it killed him. It killed us both. But we let you go..."

"What do you mean?" he asked, sniffing.

"You know Dad," I said with a small smile. "If he wanted you back, he would have found a way. If it meant torching the place, he'd have done it.

"I guess, so..." Sam said.

"And, I guess," I said, sighing. "I guess we have to accept that you're not like us. You don't want this."

I bit my lip.

"So, when this ends," I said, skipping the implied 'if'. "When that happens, if you still want to leave... I won't stop you."

"Thank you," he said softly.

I know I was hoping to hear him say something else, something like 'I can't leave you guys", but I didn't delude myself.

Silence seeped back into the room, and I found myself squeezing my eyes shut against tears that had formed. Tears I would never let fall.

I had just given my brother permission to kill me.

And he had accepted.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I accept your bribes! Here's the next chapter, and to go along with, the return of my patented, uber-delicious Impala cookies! Enjoy, and leave me lots of reviews to come back to!

---

I was greeted with an empty bed and a running shower when I finally opened my eyes the next morning. Usually I was up before Sam, and I cursed under my breath when I realized I was going to end up taking a cold shower.

Come to think of it, a cold shower sounded good. I was hot, even with the covers off. Sam must have turned up the heat when he got up. I knew there were still traces of dried blood clinging to me, too, so anything was better than this.

I tried to sit up, and failed.

"Shit," I murmured, and tried again.

Succeeding in sitting up with my back against the headboard of the bed, I ran a weary hand over my face, wincing when my fingers hit the claw marks. I probed them tenderly and decided they weren't too bad - at least, not when I compared them to the ones on my chest. At any rate, they'd heal.

I really hoped they didn't scar, though.

Which meant they probably would.

"Come on, Sam," I said grumpily to the empty room.

More than anything I wanted to go back to sleep, but I knew we had to get on the road again. We weren't far enough from Chicago yet. We needed to find a place to disappear for a while. I went over a mental list of places I knew, trying to come up with something suitable.

The water shut off in the other room, and Sam strode out wearing nothing but a towel, dripping water onto the carpet.

"You're up," he said, looking surprised. "Man, you were out. I had to check your pulse to make sure you hadn't kicked it during the night."

He smiled, and I wondered how he could be so goddamn chipper.

"Shut up," I said lamely.

"I saved you some hot water," he said. "At least, I think I did."

"Gee, thanks," I said, making a face, and started to get off the bed.

I took my time, remembering the past night and how any rapid movement made the floor rise up to meet me. Of course, slow was easy, because my body was refusing to move as it was.

"You okay?" he asked, looking over at me as he dug through his duffel bag for clean clothes.

"Fine," I nodded.

Furrowing his brow, he wordlessly grabbed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from my own bag so I wouldn't have to bend over.

Nodding my thanks, I headed into the bathroom.

Undressing slowly, unwrapping the gauze, and keeping one hand on the sink for balance, I tried to avoid the temptation to look at myself in the mirror. Natural curiosity made me want to take inventory of all the bruises and cuts, but my mouth still tasted like last night's results, so I resisted.

Sam had been thoughtful enough to put my toothbrush on the sink, too, and I cursed him for no reason.

Like 'how dare he be nice to me'.

I shook my head at myself, and made a point to back off Sam. I knew he was having jsut as hard a time as me, so why was I so irritated?

I turned on the shower full force and brushed my teeth furiously like I should have done last night, getting rid of the nasty taste in my mouth, keeping my eyes cast down at the sink until I was done and could move to the shower.

I stepped in carefully, not wanting to slip and rip my stitches, and let the warm water beat down on me, washing away the blood and sweat with cheap hotel soap.

I turned off the hot water and let the icy shower cool me for a few moments before shutting the shower off altogether.

Running a hand through my wet hair I dried off slowly, then dressed, leaving my shirt for last, knowing Sam would want to examine his stitching.

I reached for the door and lurched forward suddenly, hitting the door lightly.

"Dean?"

"Christ!" I said, jumping. "What are you sitting on the door!"

"Sorry," he said through the wood. "Are you okay?"

"I slipped," I lied. "Can I come out without smacking you in the face now?"

I heard footsteps, then, "Yeah."

I gripped my t-shirt in one hand and kept the other on the wall as I walked into the room, where Sam was sitting on his bed trying to look innocent.

I shook my head. "Sam, you need lessons in sneaky."

"Let me take a look at your chest," he said, ignoring me.

"Not till the second date," I shot back, knowing it was useless.

He sat me on the bed and peered at the stitches closely for several minutes.

"Well?" I prompted impatiently.

"Yeah, I kinda figured you'd bruise. Otherwise, little red, a little swollen," he said, poking me softly, and nodding, "but I don't think they're infected yet."

I started to get up.

"No! Not yet," he said. "Let me wrap you up."

I made a sound of frustration, and he backed off holding his hands up in innocence.

"Okay, if you want it to get worse," he said, turning away and folding his arms across his chest.

"God," I muttered. "Fine, _Mom._"

We both froze.

"Um..." I said, feeling horrible and not knowing why.

It wasn't an insult to her, and it wasn't an insult to him. It was just... weird. We didn't really talk about her unless it was absolutely necessary.

"Let me just get the stuff," he said quickly.

"Yeah," I agreed, feeling ridiculously like a scolded child.

I sat back and let him wrap me up again, ignoring the pain that refused to fade, and shaking my head when he offered me painkillers.

"Come on, Dean, you've got to be hurting. _I'm_ hurting, and I'm not even as bad off as you are," Sam said in that logical thinking voice that annoyed the hell out of me.

"Yeah," I agreed. "But I'm gonna need a clear head to drive."

"What?" he said suddenly. "You can't drive."

I cocked an eyebrow. "License says I can."

"Dean, you're hurt," he sputtered. "We're both exhausted. Can't we just... stay here a few days?"

I sighed and considered it for all of five seconds. "No."

I stood and took one look at my t-shirt, and opted for a button down, bending stiffly to pick up my bag.

"Shit!" I cried softly, my arm going to my chest as the sudden pressure made my side scream.

"Dean?" Sam asked, at my side in seconds.

"It's nothing," I said. "Just need to take it easy."

He picked up my bag for me, setting it within easy reach on my bed, and eyed me warily, as if to say, 'see?'.

I grabbed a soft, worn shirt from the pack and pulled it on slowly, awkwardly buttoning it with one hand.

"Get your stuff together, Sam," I said. "We've gotta move."

---

The distance from the room to the car was daunting, enough for me to seriously reconsider staying a few days, but Sam was already in the office checking us out, and I knew we needed to move. I had no idea how he'd managed to carry me that far last night, but I guess my condition made the distance seem a lot more than it really was.

I walked as fast as I dared, because everything in me told me to get to the car before Sam did. If he saw me walking like a newborn calf, he'd try to pull rank and make us stay. Which could get us killed, not to mention make a serious dent in my pride.

I made it to the car, which came as a shock, but I would never admit that I had expected myself to fall halfway there and need to be rescued yet again by my little brother. He had to be tired of carrying my weight. I knew I sure as hell was.

I slid in my seat, safely behind the wheel where I belonged, and closed my eyes to wait.

The sound of Sam's door startled me moments later, and I lifted my head from my chest, trying to pretend I hadn't fallen asleep.

"Ready?" Sam said, looking me over with analytical eyes.

"Yeah," I nodded. "No problem."

I could tell he didn't believe me, but he didn't say anything.

I started the car.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N : Is anyone else starting to think this is boring? Ho-hum. ;) Lots of reviews will buy more chapters and more cookies! By the way, they're fat free calorie free sodium free... um, basically, they're all the goodness with none of the reality. Enjoy. ;)

---

Metallica could never be loud enough for me. I liked my music loud, something with a beat persistent enough to get inside my head and drive away every single thought that managed to stick. It was a plus if the lyrics had some meaning, and despite what Sam might say, this did.

Metallica could never be loud enough for me... but tonight it was.

I had a headache, a splitting pain in my head that rivaled only the pain in my side. I could feel the throb of my pulse beating rapidly in each.

"Dean?" Sam's soft voice broke the silence.

"No, you can't turn on the radio," I said without thinking.

"No, uh... I was just gonna ask if you wanted to get something to eat," Sam said. "We're going to need to stop for gas soon."

I let my eyes drift downward. He was right, the needle was hovering just over E.

"Damn," I said. "We just filled up."

"Yeah, several cities ago," Sam joked.

"Alright," I said, looking back up at the road. "Next exit."

"Good," Sam said, yawning. "I'm starving. And I feel like a sardine."

I saw him trying to stretch, but the dashboard got in his way.

"Stop being so tall then," I offered lamely.

"Good come back," he laughed.

"And stop being so chipper!" I said, groaning. "You're making my head hurt!"

He laughed again, and I realized he thought I was joking. Which was fine with me, it was good to see a smile on his face, even if I didn't understand how he could be so happy at a time like this.

I flicked on the turn signal and changed lanes, eyeing the upcoming exit.

"I hope there's more than a McDonald's here," Sam said, eyeing the small gathering of lights in the distance. "If I eat another burger I'm going to turn into one."

I merely nodded half heartedly, watching for a gas station.

"There," Sam said, pointing helpfully at a Shell sign.

I shot him a look. "I can see."

I pulled up to the pump and shut off the car. "Since you're so keen on being helpful, you pump the gas."

"Fine," he said easily.

I watched him get out of the car and frowned.

As he filled the tank, I tried to sit back and relax, wrapping an arm around my stomach and resting my head on the seat back. We'd ben driving since about noon, and it was eight now. Chicago was now a decent amount of miles behind us, and Dad... Dad was someplace in between there, and where we weren't.

Sam rapped on the window, startling me out of my thoughts.

"What?" I asked, rolling down the window.

"Money?" he asked, holding out his hand.

I rolled my eyes and dug a few bills out of my pocket, shoving them at him.

I watched him walk toward the station, and told myself not to get too comfortable with him. That was the key. If I just didn't let him sink back in, it wouldn't be so hard to let him go again.

I sighed and slammed my fingers on the steering wheel.

I'd be better off trying to convince myself the sky was green and the grass was blue. Whether I wanted to admit it or not - it was not - I was already too comfortable. I'd fallen right back to where we left off, fighting like we were born to be back to back, holding the darkness at bay.

It was easy to let someone back into your life, even if you didn't want to. Maybe I'd even done it subconsciously, because I sure as hell couldn't pinpoint when Sam made the transition from geek boy to super hero again. When I stopped thinking of him as the Sam who left and started seeing him as only my brother.

That was over, though. For a while I had hoped it would stay like this. Sam and me traveling the highways of America, saving the world. And maybe somewhere along the way we'd reunite with Dad, and our family, as complete as it had ever been, would be back to our version of normal.

I know Sam loves me without him saying it. The same way he knows I love him without me having to lash out in a Lifetime movie moment. Maybe love is the wrong word... to me love is a given between family. You don't have to like them, but you have to love them.

So more than that, I liked Sammy. He had his endearing traits, and I liked those right along with everything that grated on my nerves.

This wasn't about love.

It was about Sam growing up and moving on and escaping a life I couldn't. And it was about me being too damn stubborn to let him go.

I meant what I said, though. I wouldn't stop him.

When the passenger door creaked open, I regarded Sam with heavy eyes, tying to appear casual.

"God," he said as he slumped down in his seat. "You wouldn't believe the looks I got."

He flipped his visor down, looking in the mirror with a pained expression. "_God_, there's _no_ hiding this!"

Frustrated, he slammed the visor back up and folded his arms across his chest.

I turned away so he wouldn't see the hint of a smile he induced. "So, that means you want to do the Drive Thru, right?"

He looked at me with wide eyes, a comically torn look to his eyes. Finally, he muttered, "No. I'd rather get stared at than choke down another Big Mac."

Damn.

"There's a diner just next door," he continued, pointing.

I sighed and put the Impala in gear. "Alright."

He flipped down the visor again, self consciously pushing his hair down and trying to find some way to mask the gashes on his face. When he realized there was nothing to be done, he closed the visor a little more gently this time, and sighed.

"This sucks."

"You look fine, Peaches," I muttered, pulling away from the pump.

"Shut up," he grumbled, his fingers idly touching the side of his face.

My brother wasn't vain, but to have the kind of wounds he had marring his face was enough to make a monk self-conscious.

I pulled into the diner, happily noting the parking lot was nearly vacant, and put the car in park.

As soon as the engine was off, Sam was out of the car, stretching.

Shoving the keys into my pocket I reached for the door and winced. I pushed open the door and winced again.

"Come on," Sam said impatiently.

"Cos we'll never get a table if I don't," I mumbled, trying to lever myself out of the seat.

All those hours in the car had made my already stiff muscles rigid, and as I stood, I felt a million dull aches along with the more persistent pain from my wounds. I had to wait for a few seconds, half bent over, before I could even straighten.

"Dean?" Sam asked, watching me from over the roof of the car.

"Gimme a minute," I said, feeling humiliated.

I felt old. _Old. _

Twenty six fucking years old and I felt like an old man, only without the benefit of a walker to help me move. I felt tired and fragile, like I could fall at any second and shatter into a million tiny pieces. And as Sam grabbed my elbow to help me walk, I decided I was never growing old. I never really expected I'd make it there, but now I decided with a renewed vehemence, I was not going to be one of those old farts doddering around with dementia and bowed limbs.

No fucking way.

I shook off Sam's helping hand, and endured his frown as I lead the way - slowly- to the diner entrance.

I allowed him to hold the door open for me as we stepped into the dim lighting, eyeing the stools at the counter and the couple of booths lining the windows. There must have been an half an inch of grease covering every surface in 'Mom's Diner'. My kinda place.

At the direction of the "please seat yourself sign" we chose the booth nearest the door, a habit instilled in us from years past. Always know where the exits are, and be ready to reach them before anyone notices. Not that I was going to be able to make a speedy getaway should the need arise.

Sam picked up the menu that also served as a place mat, rubbing his fingers together and grimacing with distaste.

A few moments passed before the waitress, a solid looking black woman with grey hair, placed mugs in front of us.

"You look like you could use a decent cup of coffee," she explained without prompting.

"Oh, yeah," Sam said, eyeing the pot she held in one hand.

"Ain't gonna get it here," the woman, whose name tag read Jo, grinned, pouring steaming coffee into the cups.

Even I had to crack a smile at that.

"I hate to break it to you," she said a heartbeat later. "But you boys look like hell."

Sam frowned and opened his mouth, but I beat him to it.

"Tragic rake incident, ma'am," I said dryly. "Very painful for Sammy here to talk about."

Jo regarded us thoughtfully for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to laugh or call the cops.

"You need a few minutes?" she asked, finally, smiling.

Sam gave me a questioning glance and I nodded at him to go ahead.

"I want the grilled ham and cheese," he said, practically drooling at an item not available on most fast food menus. "With tomato soup."

She nodded without writing it down, tapping her head and winking at Sam, who smiled back at her.

"For you, rake boy?" she said, raising her eyebrows at me.

"Um, the same, I guess," I said, realizing I hadn't even glanced at the menu.

"Dean, you hate ham," Sam broke in, looking at me oddly.

I looked at him for a moment, blinking. "Oh. Uh, just cheese then?"

Jo tapped her head again. "Be out in a jiffy."

"Stop looking at me," I said before she was even out of earshot. "I wasn't paying attention."

He shook his head at me, and took a gulp of coffee. "Mmm."

I idly stirred sugar into my coffee, even though I liked it black, for an added caffeine rush.

"I've been thinking," Sam said, wrapping his hands around the mug in front of him.

"Uh oh," I supplied. "That can't be good."

"Shut up," he replied and smiled briefly.

I waved my hand at him as if to say "continue".

"This demon," Sam said, leaning in and whispering. "It wants Dad, right?"

"We've covered that," I sighed, looking down into my coffee.

"Well, so there has to be a reason," Sam said, his eyes lit up.

"Yeah," I said, resisting the urge to say "duhhhh". "That being he wants Dad dead."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Stop. Listen."

I ran a weary hand through my head, and shifted my weight, trying to get comfortable on the hard plastic seat.

"It wants Dad dead," Sam repeated. "That's big, Dean."

"Still not following," I told him.

"That means it's vulnerable," Sam said, smiling victoriously.

"How do you figure?" I narrowed my eyes at him.

"Why else would it go through such extreme measures to find him?" Sam asked, throwing up his hands in what I could only assume was excitement.

I raised a brow. "Because it's a demon? And usually demons enjoy that whole hurt and kill thing."

"Yeah, okay," Sam said, immediately doing away with my not-so-scientific theory. "But demons don't usually pick and choose like that, right? Unless it's for ritualistic sacrifice or something, it doesn't matter what kind of victim it is."

I nodded, eyes still on my coffee.

"So this thing being so intent on killing Dad," Sam said, hands flat on the table, leaning toward me. "It must mean it thinks Dad can kill it."

"Or maybe it just wants to tie up loose ends," I said.

Sam laughed and launched right back into his speech. "I'm thinking Dad must know something, some kind of weakness...anything. But he's a threat, and I'm pretty sure this thing isn't going to be afraid of being tattled on."

It made sense.

"It's a nice theory," I said, gulping down the last of my coffee. "But so what?"

Sam looked crestfallen.

"Nothing," he said. "Just... it's reassuring, I guess. To think it can be hurt."

I stared at him hard. "We're going to kill it, Sam. There was never any doubt about that."

He looked away. "There was...for me."

I idly scratched my neck.

"Look, Sam," I said. "I know you don't really have faith in this family. Maybe you don't even think of us that way. But... that demon killed mom. It killed Jess. We've lost people we love. Don't ever think twice, Sammy. We're sending that bastard back to hell."

Sam caught my eye, a mix of emotions shining in his dark eyes. "Dean..."

I silenced him with a look as Jo approached the table, sliding plates of food in front of us and refilling our cups.

"Enjoy," she said cheerily.

"Thanks," Sam smiled back at her, and held the expression until she turned her back and was gone.

"Eat," I said, nodding at his food, hoping to deter the conversation Sam intended on having.

He stared at the food and picked up his spoon, dipping it into his soup.

"Dean, it's not that I don't think of you as a family," he said softly. "You guys are all I have and I'm not trying to forget that. I just... God, I didn't ask for this."

I laughed out loud despite the frustration and hurt in his voice.

"You think any of us did?" I asked. "Sam, nobody asks for this."

"I know," he said, dropping his spoon, letting it clatter against the bowl. "I didn't mean - "

"I know," I echoed. "Just forget it, okay?"

Hesitantly, he picked up his spoon again, and began to eat.

I watched him for a few moments, not thinking anything in particular, just savoring having my brother with me.

"What?" he asked, feeling my eyes on him.

"Nothing," I shrugged.

"How come you're not eating?" he asked, taking a large bite of sandwich.

"I'm not really hungry," I replied, poking at my plate.

"Then why did you order it?" he asked. Then, softly. "You haven't eaten a thing all day, Dean."

At the mother hen tone, I picked up the rapidly cooling sandwich and took a bite, chewing exaggeratedly.

"Better?" I asked around a mouthful.

"Better," Sam lied.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Errr, okay, so there has been a bit of a delay. But due to overwhelming support... (one private message and some people leaving me reviews), here it is, the next chapter! Enjooooy. And leave me lots of reviews, cos I'm having trouble cranking out the chapters now.

---

Twenty two years ago my mother burned on the ceiling above my brother's crib. My father pushed my baby brother into my arms, and told me,

_"Take your brother outside as fast as you can."_

Four years old and I was entrusted with another human life. I was handed responsibility in the form of my baby brother.

_"Don't look back."_

And I hadn't since. I had never questioned the life, no matter how hard it was, no matter how many times I bled and bruised.

_"Now, Dean, go!"_

From the first order my father ever barked, I trusted him with my life, and he trusted me to obey. And I did, because that was the difference between life and death.

I woke up in the middle of the night not knowing where I was, or how I'd gotten there. Momentarily disoriented, my internal clock too haywire to help, I panicked.

For a moment, I was back in the old house, in my old bed, on the night my family was torn apart.

Thrashing at the sheets pulled at my stitches and made fire flow through my veins, but it was enough to pull me back to reality.

I laid there, breathing hard, shaking uncontrollably.

The fire in my veins had spread to my skin, and in the darkness I shut my eyes, afraid I would see ghost flames dancing on the ceiling. Afraid my dream had finally manifested itself into reality.

Unconsciously, a groan escaped my lips.

I had the presence of mind to realize something was wrong. Really wrong.

Something was just... off.

My body hurt - even the press of the sheets against my skin was somehow sharp.

I needed to go back to sleep.

It was still dark, which meant there was still time to sleep.

And if I wasn't asleep, I wouldn't have to deal with the pain, that feeling of everything being off, and the goddamn sense of helplessness.

Yeah, sleep, I just needed sleep.

I closed my eyes and waited, but a sudden rolling in my stomach made me grimace. I tried turn over, but my body refused to obey, the ache growing stronger, and I prayed I wouldn't throw up. Drowning in your own vomit isn't a pretty death for a rock star, let alone a Winchester.

God, I'd be the laughingstock of...places.

I shifted my weight and with a grunt, made my last effort to move.

And failed.

I weighed the options in my head. Choke on puke, or wake Sam for help.

"Sammy..."

I was alarmed at the sound of my voice, my brother's name coming out as a hoarse and distressed wail.

He shot up in bed like he'd been waiting for the call.

"Dean?" he asked, his voice groggy.

I hesitated.

He turned to me, his face masked in shadows.

"Dean?" he asked again, softly.

Probably afraid he'd dreamed it, and didn't want to risk waking me.

In response, I coughed, my mouth too dry to form another word.

The bedside light snapped on, and there was Sam, disentangling himself from the sheets.

"Dean, are you okay?" he asked, kneeling by the bed.

I shook my head pitifully, feeling humiliated.

Trying desperately to remove my tongue, which seemed to have grown five times it's normal size, from the position it had rooted itself in against the roof of my mouth, I watched Sam's worried eyes evaluate me.

Wordlessly, he pulled the shabby hotel comforter down, and lifted up the hem of my sweat-soaked t-shirt.

"Shit," I heard him say.

I rolled my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of what made Sam curse, and would have succeeded if I had the strength to raise my head.

"Infected," he murmured. "Dean, can you look at me?"

I could, and counted it a victory.

"I'm gonna have to clean this," he said, his eyes boring into mine.

Fucking puppy dog eyes that looked all the world like he'd just been kicked. I had a mental flash of Sammy cowering in a corner with his tail tucked between his legs, but that didn't seem quite right. Sam in a dog suit?

I laughed, a short bark of sound that died off quickly.

Sam fixed with me a nervous look.

"Dean, are you with me?" he asked, snapping his fingers in front of my face.

I had half a mind to grab those fingers and cuss him out, having the nerve to do that to me, especially when I was sick!

It was then I realized I was losing it, and fought to keep a tight grip on my mind.

I nodded.

"Okay," Sam said, and left.

I could hear him rummaging through something, the first aid kit, most likely, and a moment later he reappeared.

"This is gonna hurt," he apologized.

Duh.

The scent of alcohol suddenly assaulted my nostrils, and I felt an icy sensation hit my side, so cold it hurt my skin. And then it _hurt_ my skin.

The burn of the alcohol on my open wounds and Sammy's gentle but thorough motions with the rough cloth were enough to make me clench my jaw against a scream that welled up in my throat.

My vision dimmed as he sat me up, reaching around my back to make sure he got every single inch of wound doused in the liquid. The wave of nausea I had battled previously came back full force.

"Dean?" Sam said from someplace far away. "Dean, are you okay?"

I managed a weak shake of my head, and swallowed hard.

"Are you going to hurl?" he asked quickly.

I think I nodded, because the next thing I knew, I was in motion, which made my stomach lurch, and I closed my eyes against the sensation, my legs dragging as Sam practically hauled me to the bathroom.

I felt the cool linoleum under my bare feet, then seeping through my pant legs, the cool smooth porcelain against my hands as I clutched the toilet bowl with disregard to cleanliness.

What little I'd choked down at dinner came back to greet me.

I heard Sam make a small noise of disgust, but he held me up, rubbing small, soothing circles on my shoulder, the only touch that didn't hurt.

I made a mental note to be nicer to him, and gagged again, my throat burning.

When I finally stopped dry heaving and my breath was coming in shaky gasps, he left me propped against the toilet. I heard the faucet turn on, and he reappeared seconds later with a glass of water, which he pressed against my lips.

I took in a mouthful, and he instructed me, "Rinse first."

I obliged, spitting into the toilet bowl, and he leaned me back against the wall, where I stayed until I heard the water running again as he flushed.

"Here," he said, bringing the cup to my lips again.

I opened my eyes finally, and drank a slow sip, enjoying the cool liquid as it washed down my irritated throat.

When he offered more, I shook my head slowly.

"Too cold," was all I could say.

It was true, the water had left me quenched, but shivering.

"Come on," Sam said, kneeling and taking a hold of my elbow. "Up we go."

I let him lift me, offering what help I could muster as he lead me back to the bed, sighing gratefully as the soft surface found it's way beneath me.

"Sleep," Sam said.

I closed my eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Oddly enough, even though I let this story fall aside, I'm still getting a review here or there...:D So here it is, the next installment, far, far too late. I promise, I haven't given up... I jsut had really... realllly bad writer's block.

---

I was ten the first time I shot to kill.

Ten years old, with my gun clutched in sweaty, unwavering hands.

Ten years old faced with a snarling demon crouched over the prone form of my father.

It was the first hunt I'd been allowed to accompany him on, a simple investigation really, but I learned fast that nothing was ever simple. Not in our line of work. What was supposed to be a general recce of a local forest became a lesson in survival.

It was a leathery demon, long limbs ending in wickedly sharp claws, short on facial features, but the eyes... I would never forget the eyes. Blazing red like the very fires of hell flared up behind those orbs.

It came out of nowhere, and it came fast, dropping from the trees and overcoming my father within seconds. He didn't even have time to fight back. The creature just dragged him away, leaving me there a scared little boy.

I called out for him, as much a reflex as in fear.

The demon looked up, catching me in those flame red eyes. It opened it's jaws, revealing razor edge teeth, and I swear it licked it's lips in anticipation.

Two for the price of one.

It charged.

I shot.

I used a full clip on that bastard to make sure, afraid my dad would berate me for wasting bullets. But all he said when he woke up, was that I'd done good.

I thought that's what family meant. That you had each other's backs.

Our view was slightly more askew than the average family, I guess.

We weren't much for celebrations, for holidays and birthdays. We showed our love by saving each others lives, by stitching each other's wounds.

It's what we did.

It's how I knew, waking from a nightmare, that Sam was still there.

Only... he wasn't.

I woke lashing out with cramped fingers, clawing at the bedclothes, expecting to feel the weight of him sitting exactly where he had been when I'd fallen asleep.

But he wasn't.

I wanted to cry, but I'm too much of a man to cry over something like that. God, I'd never hear the end of it. Knowing him, Sam would make some clever allusion to some chick flick I'd never even seen, but would soon be nicknamed after.

Brothers.

The thought made my chest hurt even more, my throat closing around a lump I didn't remember having formed. Because what would I do without him? What the fuck was I going to do without him?

It's funny how the big thoughts come to you in moments like that. Stupid silly moments, where you're sick in bed, or making coffee and thinking how horrible it is to pour into only one cup. To wash your meager wardrobe at the local Laundromat and have no one to pass the time with.

I looked at the opposite bed, and he wasn't there either.

I didn't panic this time.

Some things you have to have faith in, right?

I knew he wouldn't leave me like this.

No, he'd wait till I was healed up, barely a hint of a scar showing, and then he'd announce he was leaving again.

I tried to sit, mentally cursing myself for being such a selfish bastard. I was fine, I was dealing with it, but hell if it wouldn't take some time to get used to. I'd never be okay with Sam leaving, but I knew I had to accept it. For him, if not for sake of my sanity.

Struggling against the oddly icy burning in my chest, I felt the room tilt and spin around me, taunting me.

I didn't remember getting up.

I didn't remember passing out.

The last thing I knew I was rocketing from a hellish nightmare into a hellish reality, the last traces of the dream vanishing in a swirl of smoke almost as soon as I opened my eyes.

Sam was standing over me, gripping me by the shoulders, and shaking me.

Hard.

I protested with a grumble and fought to pull away from him, blinking in the bright light.

"Dean, are you with me?" he asked.

I didn't answer him right away, trying instead to figure out why I was in the bathtub, half naked and freezing my ass off.

"Dean?" he asked again, more insistently.

For a brief moment, I wanted to hug him. He was back, he hadn't left me after all. And even though I _knew_ he hadn't, some part of me took hold of that fear, and didn't let go.

"Sammy," I said, reaching up and grabbing his shoulder, satisfied at the feel of his shirt beneath my fingers. Real, tangible, Sam.

He shot me a worried look.

"Dean, you're burning up," he said, gently removing my hand. "I found you on the floor."

"Where -?" I asked, and couldn't finish, my mouth too dry to finish.

"I went to get ice," he said, then smiled ruefully. "I guess I should have gotten more."

I looked down into the tub and spotted a few pieces of half melted ice still lingering in the cold water that surrounded me.

"You really scared me, Dean," he said softly. "I was only gone a minute... you just _had_ to wake up then."

A shiver racked my body.

"Here," he said, sticking something in my mouth.

In surprise, I noted the thermometer from the first aid kit, the most rarely used item in our stores, and allowed him to place it under my tongue.

"I know you're cold," he said apologetically. "I just need to make sure your fever's gone down some."

I stared dumbly at the plastic sticking out of my mouth.

"God, you look like hell," he said. "I should have been more careful."

I shivered again, and bit down hard on the thermometer, which barked out a series of beeps in response.

Sam retrieved it and stared hard at the display, then me, reaching out to place a hand on my forehead.

I tried hard not to lean in to the contact, desperate for an anchor to reality.

"Damn," he spat, and shoved the thermometer onto the edge of the sink. "103... you're not out of the woods yet, but it's better that nothing."

He retrieved a towel from the rack, and draped it around my shoulders, pulling me to my feet with little effort. I tried to get my feet under me to help, but he seemed to have it under control, and truth be told, I wasn't sure I could do much anyway. I gave up and let him lead me back to the bed, sit me up, and towel me off.

Too sick to even care that my brother had to take care of me like I was a baby, I made no fuss when he dressed me in clean pair of pajama bottoms and tucked me away beneath the covers to ward off the cold that, despite my fever, had seeped into me.

He let out a deep breath and ran his hands over his face, yawning.

Craning my neck, I saw the clock on the night stand boldly proclaiming it damn near dawn.

My mind whirled, trying to figure out what Sam was thinking going for ice at this hour. Or, maybe I needed to ask exactly how long I'd been out of it. Or maybe I just needed to stop thinking...

"Sammy?" I croaked.

In an instant, he was at my side, all mother-hen and big brown eyes.

Stupid kid.

"What is it?" he prodded when I didn't speak. "Are you okay?"

I stared at him for a long moment, and swallowed hard, not trusting myself to speak.

"I'm..." I hesitated. "I'm proud of you, Sammy."

His mouth fell open. "What?"

"I'm proud of you," I repeated slowly, trying to focus on his hazy image.

"Dean..." he trailed off.

"I...never told you," I said. "I was so mad at you leaving that I just...I never told you. I've always been proud of you."

"Dean, what's there to be proud of?" he asked. "I'm not in school, I'm not -"

I cut him off, gasping softly as I tried to compensate for the fast speech. "All of it, Sammy... not just school. Who you are. Who you can be, _will_ be."

He smiled uneasily.

"Hunting...you might hate it, but you're good," I said, my eyes drooping.

"Not as good as you," he laughed shortly.

"Not better," I agreed. "Just different. Doesn't matter. You can do anything you put your mind to. Just... remember that."

"Not that I don't appreciate the sweet talk," he said, trying to smile. "But, you're not planning on dying on me are you?"

"Not tonight," was all I could think to say.


	10. Author's Note

A/N: And not much more...

Due to unfortunate circumstances...i.e. two work-related injuries in the same month, I'm not going to be updating any time soon. The thing is, it's kind of hard to type with your thumb in a cast, so...

I'll hope for fast healing, but it might be a while, guys. Thanks for all the crazy love I've been receiving... and the persistent prodding to get another chapter out.

Sorry, guys, but, it's just too hard.


	11. Chapter Ten

A/N : Okay, okay, people, because you kept persisting that I write more, here it is. The anticlimactic end to Sic Transit Gloria! In a way, I like it, but I'm not totally satisfied. Because it's been so long since Shadow aired, and with the new season underway, I'm just not able to get back into the mindset I was when I wrote this. Knowing what I know it's too hard, and ... well, I'm just not in it like I was. To drag it out any longer would be cruel, and I really thing it needs to end.

So here it is to all of you who yelled at me for not having it finished when I posted a new story. Seriously... you're still yelling at me. cries

Let me know if you like it, love it, or hate me to death. It's not what it could be, but it IS, and that's all I can hope for.

---

When I was young, and I got sick, the real cure wasn't fluids and whatever nasty medicine the doctors made me swallow twice a day. The real cure wass getting to sit in Dad's bed, and have him pay more attention to me than the hunt at hand. It was getting to watch TV all day and eat chicken soup Sammy had watered down with sketchy tap water, and served cold because we didn't have a microwave.

It was getting touched, constantly. A hand to my forehead every time he passed, to make sure the fever hadn't spiked, or to smooth my hair, to rest a comforting hand on my shoulder.

I'd take that over the medicine any day. And not just because the stuff tasted like crap.

Sam must have picked up on something watching Dad's rare mother hen moments, because after he decided I wasn't dying, he wouldn't leave me alone. If he wasn't looking at me like I might fall over, he was taking my temperature every hour, shoving orange juice down my throat, reminding me it was time to take my pills or asking me how I was feeling.

I heard somewhere that we learn by doing.

I wish he hadn't paid so much goddamn attention, because being mothered by the kid you practically raised, can get old fast.

Well, there's something I learned, too.

It was a pattern, and well rehearsed.

Fight, bleed, heal, pack up in the morning and move on. Now more than ever we had to keep moving, never staying in one place long enough to let it bite us on the ass.

I woke Sam at dawn the very day I felt like I could sit for more than an hour without passing out. I turned a deaf ear to his protests that I still had a fever that I couldn't manage to get rid of, and stitches that would kill me ten minutes into a drive. I shoved our shit in the car, and I handed him the keys.

He looked at me for a full minute, just staring with those huge brown eyes of his, trying to say a million things I had no intention of hearing.

It was hard enough having to be in that damn tiny room with everything we said and left unsaid hanging over our heads like a rain cloud.

So we left.

It was that easy. We left everything back in that hotel room, and we drove on.

Only this time, I had no idea where we were going, or what we were fighting for.

The future was uncertain for the first time in my life, because for the first time there was an _emphasis_ on it.

Before, I stick to what I knew : find something to fight for, a monster to kill or a demon to exorcise, a regular salt and burn once a week when things got boring. Wake up the next morning and move on to the next job.

Now I had to wonder what the future held for us. For the first time, this fight had an end in sight. Even the remote possibility had been, up until now, a dream, Dad's life quest, a fight handed down to us whether we wanted to take it on or not.

We had come together as a family, stronger as a unit, and lost. We had come up against the demon's minions, not even the real thing, and we were slaughtered, almost killed in a matter of minutes.

Leaning against the door, I sighed out loud.

"You okay?" Sam asked, pouncing on me. "You want me to pull over?"

I cursed the silence in the car, wanting nothing more than to crank up the stereo and drown out his question.

Instead, I shook my head. "I'm fine, Sam."

He raised a disbelieving brow, but to his credit, said nothing.

"You think we should call Dad?" he asked after a moment. "Make sure he's okay?"

I sighed again. "He won't answer."

I didn't have to try to know that. His resolve would be even stronger now, with the Chicago incident to back his belief that we were better off without him.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, faltered.

"I'm sure he's fine," I said, knowing without him saying it. "Don't worry."

"I wasn't," he said softly.

Liar.

"I just wish..." he said finally. "I wish we could be a family."

I eyed him sharply. This was different.

I didn't reply.

What could I say?

_It'd sure be nice, Sam?_

Hardly.

The thing about gathering all your eggs in one basket is, no matter how much easier it is to carry, no matter how nice it is for all the eggs to be together, fitting in so nicely with each other, one big happy egg family... you drop the basket, and everyone's dead.

That's why we can't be together now.

And Sam's why we won't be together later.

And maybe I'm at fault here, for wanting us to _be_ that happy family. Maybe it's stupid and I'm selfish, and maybe I still don't care.

We're a family now, hundreds of miles apart, bleeding and broken from trying to reunite.

We'll be a family when we're dead and gone.

Maybe that's the lesson this all is supposed to teach me.

But all I know in the end, this is what we do.

We bleed together.


End file.
